


reversing atrophy

by moroodors



Series: stanuary 2020 [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Disassociation, Gen, Mild Language, Pre-Series, Stanuary, Stanuary 2020, Worship AU, au where ford worships bill, check notes for all warnings, existential thoughts, ford has major obsessive behaviors, i dont think there is an ounce of fluff in this, non-linear timeline, or called in my wip "au where ford's weirdness dial is up to eleven"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moroodors/pseuds/moroodors
Summary: where, ford had always been the weird kid. staying up late asking questions that made stan uncomfortable. muttering things to himself in dead languages. obsessing over the universe, his place in the whole thing, and what started it.written for stanuary 2020. week three: au
Relationships: Stanley Pines & Stanford Pines
Series: stanuary 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572886
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42
Collections: Stanuary





	reversing atrophy

**Author's Note:**

> "follow the disorganized religion of my head"  
> west coast smoker, fall out boy. 
> 
> warnings: worshiping, mention of animal corpse, existential thoughts, disassociation, language, mention of suicide, blood, religion 
> 
> don't be afraid to message me if more details are needed. stay safe.

_ AFTER _

His hands remained firmly clasped together, long black cloth against his knees doing nothing to save pain from the harsh wood. Wood harvested from the trees around him, planted in the ground before he was born, a part of Earth, the universe, going around the sun like everything else. 

“ _ Gratias tibi, _ ” his voice is quiet enough that it barely vibrates the atoms in front of him. Latin, a dead language coming to life on his tongue, ancient vows being the only thing that can capture this feeling. The feeling of utter devotion. Love, some could call it. 

The white collar is tight around his neck. That pressure is always there, like a hand. For comfort, he imagines it as more of a collar to a leash, bounded forever, until the end of time. 

“Bill,” Stanford says, looking up for the first time. The yellow light reflects off his glasses, black frames sitting on his ears. He makes eye contact with the tapestry, following each of the three straight lines coming together, an eye sat perfectly in the center. The small slit of pupil gives him a warmness, like a cat coming back again for food. He’s had the pleasure to see that eye in person, have it bore into his soul, occupy his mind. Gaze upon him. See him. 

He feels a smile grow on his face as he lowers his head again. He closes his eyes and that grin changes, morphs into something else, something unnatural. 

Yellow seeps out from under his eyelids. 

-

_ BEFORE _

Stanford has always been the weird kid. 

“Look, Stanley! See how the sun affects the rate of decomposition? The sun only shines here and it looks totally different!” 

Stan had to use all of his self control to not plug his nose, run away from there, and try not to see the rotting corpse of a possum behind his eyelids. But, this was Stanford, so Stan had to stay. Because no one else would. 

“I see it, Sixer.” 

Ford’s sketching something Stan doesn’t want to think about, so he goes over to the ocean. Blue skies and blue water. The salty air is a comforting smell, able to push everything else out. Sometime later, their mom calls them back home and they eat dinner and continue life like everything was normal. Because it was, for them. 

Weeks later, they got a telescope for their birthday and had it out by the beach. Ford was the only one who knew how to work it, so it really was just a present for him. 

“Space is so big,” Ford’s voice is somewhat contorted, telescope pushing against his glasses pushing against his nose. “Incomprehensible distances between each speck of rock and gases, growing forever and ever. Where is the end? Where is the start?”

The sand feels rough underneath where Stan sits. He grabs a handful and watches it fall on his lap. “Isn’t that what Ma says religions are for?” It feels like a little bit of the sand has seeped inside him, drifting to his gut and hardening into something like glass, weighing him down. 

“The edge of the universe…” Ford starts again, like he hasn’t even heard Stan. Maybe he didn’t. “Where existence and nonexistence meet. We are all so tiny. Not even having the weight of the tittle of the sentence that is life. Isn’t it lovely? Everything, anything we do doesn’t matter, so why do anything?”

“Stop Ford, you’re scarin’ me…”

“Are we alone out there? What has made people stop existing everywhere else? At the same time as making us extremely small, it all makes us so important. Everything out there is for us. Maybe that’s where we come from before we are born. The stars, all gases and elements we know. Maybe that’s where we go after we die-”

“Stanford!”

He looks away from the telescope for the first time, towards Stan. Stan never uses his whole name.

“What?” Ford doesn’t even seem to know what he was doing.

Stan’s chest feel tight, throat too small. “You’re scarin’ me.” 

“Why?” Ford looks up at the sky, not using the telescope. A small smile is on his face and Stan feels nauseous. “Isn’t it comforting? Knowing that even though we are so small, we are important. Even dying, our atoms are just reused into something else, fueling the universe. Helping the machine chug on.” 

Stan stands up and feels dizzy almost, weird inside. Weird outside. Like he’s not a part of himself, floating and watching from a different perspective. He doesn’t feel in control, real. It’s terrifying. “Stop!”

Ford doesn’t say anything else, but stands there, second after second, seemingly unfazed. That throws Stan over the edge. “I’m goin’ home.” And Stan runs off home, leaving Ford, the cold wind against his face doing nothing to ground him back. The stars continue to shine yellow. 

After that, they went on less adventures. Ford stayed up late asking questions that made Stan uncomfortable and learning dead languages that confused him. Stan used the same time to make friends with the boys in his class, hang out by the candy shop near the end of the boardwalk. Stan always discouraged them from making fun of his brother, not that they made fun of his fingers anymore. Just the weird things he said, muttering things no one could understand to himself, nose either in a book or pointed to the stars. People were surprised they were twins. Stan was the normal one, Ford was the other, weird one.

(They never did find a boat.)

-

_ AFTER _

He hums a song to himself, cassock drifting against the wood paneling on the floor. Amber light seeps through the ancient windows, light traveling farther than he ever has, just to hit the ground beneath his feet. The song he hums isn’t one of this dimension, something carried over by his muse. Something of praise. 

He doesn’t pause before the doors at the end of the hallway, even knowing what he’s about to do. He’s not nervous. The feeling inside him might even be called pride. 

“Welcome,” He says as we walks up to the church’s altar, “Thank you all for coming on this joyous day. Soon, under the full moon, the gateway will open and the one who has allowed me to make him my muse will come forth, and save our dimension. Bring knowledge to us, show us the right way of living.” 

The church is silent, Stanford can almost feel the aprehnsion, the excitement, the bated breath. He rests his six-fingered palms flat on the altar, the blood red drawing of Bill watching him. Stanford smiles. 

The pews are empty as always, but the voices of Bill’s followers in his own dimension fill the back of his head and he knows that he has an audience. He isn’t alone. 

The red of the drawing drips to the floor.

-

_ BEFORE _

Ford’s genius didn’t gain him any friends, bit it did gain him the view of admission officers from across the country. 

Though their parents always introduced them as Stanley first and then Stanford afterwards, praised Stan enough for being normal that it wasn’t hard getting B’s (even an A) on his report card or winning boxing tournaments, this they couldn't ignore. 

Their Pa saw this as a way for Ford to finally redeem himself, saying a grim “ _ Don’t mess this up _ ” to Ford’s science fair project of a hypothesis of the origin of the universe, built upon studying dead animals and distance space theory, all detailed under a thick scientific paper titled  _ Reversing Atrophy _ . 

They both didn’t talk much anymore, but even Stan knew what this project was about. Ford had been obsessing over it, covering their bedroom walls with endless papers, textbooks with manic script commentary, Ford muttering to himself at all hours of the day. Stan had even heard Ford talk in his sleep about it. He’s skipped school for it, not even fazed by their parents yelling at him, just saying something about how this is for the “greater good.” 

“Hey, Stanley!” A girl shouted at him where he was lingering outside the gym. The science fair was that night, but they still had school. Their parents had tasked Stan to make sure that Ford attended classes, but that was seeming to be an impossible task, so he turned to the girl.

“Hey, Donna, was it?” 

She smiled with a nod before directing that nod towards the gym. “Your brother in there?”

“Yeah,” Stan cast a glance back towards the doors as a certain dread filled his stomach. He wasn’t sure why, though. “Don’t think he’s going to be leaving anytime soon.”

She leaned in close and kept her voice down, “What shot do you think he has of making it? It’s  _ West Coast Tech _ we’re talking about. Yeah he’s smart, but…” Her voice trails off and the  _ but he’s really fucking weird  _ remains unsaid. 

That feeling of dread deepens, heavy in his gut. He’s reminded of starry nights long ago and the terrifying glimpse into Ford’s thoughts. Often, Stan wonders what would have happened if they never got that telescope. 

“He’s been manic about it for forever now, if anyone deserves it, it’s him.” 

(A turning point, a Bill Cipher says, someplace else, sticking his fingers in the timeline and pointing to this point. A point of distinction between dimensions. This is a unique Stan. Most Stans would do anything to keep their brother close. Not this one. A Ford of a far off dimension looks on with wide eyes.)

Like a slow poison, that dread had spread throughout the whole day, growing and consuming his whole body. He couldn’t focus. It went far enough that he sat with his mom in front of the crystal ball after school.

She makes swirling motion with long red nails on the glass. “Tell me what you see.” 

Stan leans close and stares hard at the glass. He had always been the one out of everyone to believe what she says, but also appreciating the lie of it. Ford never listened to her. At first there is nothing, then there are vague shapes that can’t be described as anything. But, they congeal together, darkening, into something… more. “There’s a crow.”

“How many?” She hums out, closing her eyes. “This is very important.”

Stan comes closer to the glass, scanning, trying to see anything else. “I only see the one,” The dread remains. 

“Bad luck,” She says, “According to some. Others say it’s change, unfortunate change. I recommend saving your bets.” She opens her eyes and gives a look of pity to Stan. “I’m sorry it’s not happier, sweetie, ‘specially with Stanford’s presentation tonight.”

Stan sighs as he stands up. “It’s alright, I’ve been feeling like this all day.”

She stands up too, resting a hand on Stan’s arm. It warm and comforting. “Trust your gut, Stanley. I always believed you were the one to inherit the psychic gene. Your feelings will guide you far.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

The sun bleeds yellow as the time of Stanford’s presentation creeps closer.

-

_ AFTER _

His hand was steady, ink bleeding a looping cursive on the aging, yellowed paper. He had torn the paper out of an old book in the library, but this was more important than whatever lackluster knowledge the book could deliver in ten or twenty years. What he was repurposing it to do would give limitless knowledge for eons. 

_ You are cordially invited to the experience of a lifetime _

That made it sound like a party, one of those in college he was never invited to. But, he supposed it was a party. Bill promised a celebration, a party memorable enough to make up for all those he missed. Bill promised him a seat with the big kids, credited as one of the hosts, a place at the table with everyone else. No more being thrown aside. 

_ To ascend to a higher plane, _

_ Finally realize your true meaning _

He kept it short, not wanting to give anything away. He only wrote one other invitation, most of the guests were in places where he couldn’t mail anything to them. Sliding them each into their own envelopes, he poured a small bit of candle wax, imprinting the seal. Smiling to himself at satisfaction at the triangle staring back at him. Bill once told him that every drawing of him was a gateway, a window. That was comforting, someone always there. Always with him. He wasn’t alone anymore.

On the front, he wrote his name first. 

_ Stanford Pines. 618 Gopher Road. Gravity Falls, Oregon.  _

On one, he took his time in writing  _ Fiddleford McGucket.  _ His hand was hesitant on the other one, a familiar sensation he wasn’t used to. Taking a deep breath, reminding himself of his belief, he wrote the next name steady.  _ Stanley Pines. _

The ink dried as black as a pupil.

-

_ BEFORE _

The front door burst open, hitting the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frames. 

Stan had been watching tv, but was startled into a sitting position, an exclamation of  _ How’d it go? _ on his lips that wilted away at the red on Ford’s face, anger wafting off of him. Stan can practically see the heat waves above his head. “What happened?” Is what he asks instead. 

“They don’t understand me!” Ford starts pacing in front of the tv. His hair is standing straight out, looking like Ford’s been tugging on it. Stan’s heart feels heavy in his chest. “Those fucking idiots!”

“Woah, Ford.” It was never good when he cursed. “Calm down, let’s talk about it.” Neither of them mentioned this was so far the longest conversation they had in weeks. 

Ford continued like he didn’t even hear Stan. Maybe, this wasn’t a conversation. Just Ford yelling while Stan just so happened to be there. “They wouldn’t be able to see anything scientifically revolutionary if it was sitting right under their noses! Which it was! They were out to get me from the start, not ‘agreeing’ with my ‘methods.’”

His finger quotes were harsh, leaving no sympathy with the jerky movements. “Saying it was ‘unethical.’ They don’t understand what needs to be done for real results. Do they not realize what I discovered? The beginning of time! Wasting their time calling me a ‘freak.’ A ‘monster.’”

“So,” Stan starts slowly, but he makes sure to be loud enough that Ford doesn’t just continue with his speech. The more he was saying, the more Stan realized he didn’t know about Ford’s research. Something not unfamiliar to fear was crawling up his spine. “You didn’t get in.” 

“I didn’t want to get in!” Which, just answers Stan with a  _ Yes, I didn’t get in. And it was an ugly rejection. All of school will be talking about it. I will be lucky to get into another college.  _ “I don’t want to go to a school that doesn’t support scientific exploration.”

Stan clears his throat and Ford actually stops. Maybe this had hope to be an actual conversation. “Stanford, what did you do? How come the school didn’t find out at the actual fair?”

Ford rolled his eyes as if Stan just asked a stupid question. “I didn’t have to explain  _ how  _ I got my data for the school, they wouldn’t understand anyway. Naturally, West Coast Tech asked more questions. I explained how I studied animals; how, with my methods, the connection could be made that our universe isn’t actually unsimilar to that of a cell - an organism - starting as one and growing and growing, being able to reverse mitosis to see the start-

“But,” Ford cuts himself off with a shout and a manic glint in his eyes, “They just wouldn’t listen! Too hung up on the details! Cowards, afraid of the truth.”

Stan felt sick to his stomach. Stan had been under the impression that Ford  _ found _ the animals, not- didn't- wouldn’t-

He stands up suddenly, room spinning. He feels like he just finished a boxing match, just as hard to breathe. He didn’t know Ford at all. He didn’t know- who was this stranger he had been sharing a room with? “They were right.” He swallows the mounting terror growing in his throat, clogging it up. “They were right to reject you.”

Ford looks like he’s been slapped, which he might has well have been. Anger shows bright on his face for a moment, before being replaced with something colder, harder. “You don’t understand. But, one day you will. I will make you.”

Ignoring every instinct generations before him have instilled in his DNA, Stan takes a step forward and places a hand on Ford’s arm. This was his twin, in the end. He could pretend to not be afraid. Lie like their Ma does. “Sixer, I don’t know what’s going through your head; but, it’s not too late. I know we haven’t been talking much lately, but we can get you help. We can be brothers again.” Stan tries not to think of far off nights and terrifying questions, a horrible feeling of feeling outside himself, as he forces a small smile. 

“You’re the only one that cared,” Ford says, still an eerie calm. Of course Stan cares about Ford, but has Ford not felt the  _ fear  _ Stan feels whenever he’s near Ford? The terror in his bones, the thoughts running through his head, clogging his throat and making it harder to breathe. Bringing him out of his body. That kind of thing doesn’t make someone quick to say that that person cares. 

Distantly, Ford looks toward the door. “I need some air.” As quickly as he came, he leaves.

He disappears into the blue night, fading into the rest of the world. Stan sat waiting for Ford, watching the window. He didn’t come back that night. Or the next day. Or the following week with the missing person's report. Or even the next year, when Stan become convinced Ford killed himself. 

It was ten years later, with a piece of yellowed mail. 

-

_ AFTER _

Whistling a song to himself, Stan twirled the mail keys around his finger as he walked the short distance to the mailboxes. The California coast’s sea air felt comforting, cooling his skin under the sun that still shone bright even in winter. 

The mailbox wasn’t a far walk from his house, but he still had time to wave to some of his neighbors. Houses by the beach had been all shoved together like someone trying to do a collage in three dimensions, but it was cozy. 

He gave a final wave to the guy that liked to box with him sometimes on the weekends before sticking the key it and turning. Inside, it all looked to be pretty standard. Drifting to a trash can, he throws away various ads from local restaurants and desperate gyms just starting out and trying to get a known face at their gym. He keeps a coupon for a sandwich shop and drawing from a fan. 

Out from between two pieces of mail, seemingly junk, an envelope slides to the floor. 

Really seeing it for the first time catches Stan off guard, makes him falter in his leaning down to grab it. It’s landed face up, a written  _ Stanley Pines  _ so familiar in a way he believes too good to be true, heart beating faster and faster until he can manage to wrench his eyes to the corner of the envelope, the returning address, dark against the light of the aged paper. Stan can almost smell the trees, the pine, wafting up from the letter and up to his nose, settling deep in his hippocampus, clenching down with an iron fist on the primal urge of tears. 

_ Stanford Pines _ glinting back up at him, an early afternoon sun making the ink appear to be a wet black.

-

_ BEFORE _

Backupsmore University was the only school that accepted Ford. 

His stellar grades were enough to cover that he hasn’t graduated high school. He wanted to get an early start. He told them such. They accepted him easily. 

It was refreshing, being able to skip as many classes ahead that he needed to, not being held back by classmates that didn’t contain the same processing power he did. 

He took as many classes as his counselors would allow (and then some more added, with a sneaky late night to go in and change his official schedule). He chose to focus on Theoretical Physics, Astronomy, Oddities that included paranormal and otherwise, with a lesser focus on Religious Studies. 

On his first day of his Religious Studies course, he sat next to a thin man, fingers tapping and leg bumping in a way that seemed like his body was too tight for him. He did offer a small smile to Ford as he sat down, however. 

“Fiddleford McGucket,” He says with a thick accent and a hand out-reached. The motion causes a cross necklace to fall out of the front of his shirt and dangle in front of him. Ford rolls his eyes, ignoring the hand. Fiddleford catches this and retracts it, but keeps the friendly nature. “Not a fan, huh?”

“No,” Ford says outright, taking out a notebook and pencil. He aligns the small notebook on the desk with the pencil for a few moments. “But do not be offended. I’m not a fan of any religion. So far, of course.”

This gains a hum from the other man. Ford sees him take out a thick notebook from a paper crowded backpack that already seems full. “If ya don’t mind me askin’, then why are ya takin’ the class?” 

“I am still curious of the start. The end. The question of why.” Ford scans the class and jots down a few notes about his classmates.  _ Brown hair. Blonde. Doesn’t stand out. No one seems to be worth my time.  _ “Additionally, of course I’m curious about religion in the first place. Gods have no power with no belief. No one believing in them and no one follows them. Boiled down, humans create gods. Give them their power. Does that make humans more powerful than gods? Are humans gods?

“And of course,” Ford finishes his last word on the paper to look over at Fiddleford for the first time. His eyes are wide. Ford can’t tell why. “There’s the question of if gods even exist in the first place. Many reasons to take the class. What are yours?”

Fiddleford gives a low whistle and breaks eye contact, moving for the first time since Ford was talking. Farther back to lean in his seat. “I jus’ thought this class’d be in’erestin’.” He pauses. Starting again after a moment, slower. “You’re a unique man. What’d ya say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.” Ford hesitates before sticking his hand out. “Stanford Pines.”

Fiddleford grins something bright as the sun and shakes Ford’s hand. He doesn’t say anything about an extra finger. 

“It’d be nice gettin’ to know ya better.”

“You as well.” 

By the end of class, Ford had obtained a small scrap of paper, Fiddleford’s apartment address scribbled on top of it, excess grey graphite drifting off the page, not unlike a spark off a flame, a new friendship coming to light. 

-

_ AFTER _

Kneeling in front of the portal, Stanford raised his palms towards the eye in the center. 

Red pooled in the center, pooling enough to slide down his plain of mars, past the canyon of his wrist, and gravity bringing it down his arm. Leaving a stained trail in its wake. He paid no attention to it. Only to the words he was saying. The vibrations they caused in his throat and in his chest, rattling past his bones and to the cavity of the room. 

The dirt beneath was as cold as space. Not that he knows that. Not yet. 

“Bill,” He speaks softly, “ _ Gratias tibi _ , thank you.” He brings his hands down, touching the earth, feeling the warm red sting as dirt made contact with it. This dirt is old. Has a reason. Put here to become this ground that he sits on, able to put forth the creations of his muse, able to bring humanity to a higher plane. 

He spreads his hands out, dragging them in opposite directions. Six fingers drift over small rock and dirt, slight susurrations in the orbit around his body. His hands go back as far as they can and then some to complete a circle around him, drifting closer to him and itching up his body until they held close to his chest. 

The blood’s cold now, emerging from the precise cuts on his palms. It can feel it on his chest, warmth seeping out and into the air. He hopes desperately that Bill can use it for something. Use every part of him. 

“Thank you,” He says again. He can’t say it enough. He could have an infinite amount of time and still not have enough to say it to the point in which he would cover the full extent. “For saving me. I’m truly blessed.”

Stanford dips his head low, hovering just above the ground. He keeps his palms close to his chest, his heart, the red triangles decorating them giving him a comfort that warms him to his bones.

-

_ BEFORE _

Scouring the library, Ford had come up with the location of the caves that were spoken about in the ancient texts provided in the Gravity Falls museum. 

It had taken weeks. But the being that they talked about in the ancient languages, something of great power. Immeasurable knowledge. Holding the keys to the secrets of the universe. Some being only talked about in the folds and cracks of the dimensions, something so sacred and held to high esteem. All factors that led Ford to deciding he has to find these caves where they said he can summon the being. Must find these caves. 

Ford isn’t in the best condition and the hike is treacherous. He doesn’t bother with any climbing gear, though. (He never was one for safety.)

By the time he’s at the mouth of the cave, the sun is dipping into the second half of the sky. He’s certain this is the correct cave with the foot that steps inside it, a warm rushing feeling starting at his head and sweeping to his feet. Warm enough that it felt cold, biting his feet and crawling up his legs. The sensations, all not unsimilar to how his mother describes a “psychic” feeling. 

He lets his fingers graze over the wall of rock, something light brown and seemingly untouched by man. There’s not even a footstep in the dirt that shows other people have been here. 

The flashlight remained unused, the rock seeming to reflect the sunlight deeper into the cave, illuminating the paintings in a way he thought would be impossible, given the degree he has in physics. 

Floating over to the paintings, Ford can’t make out most of them. Vague shapes that could be considered people in alternate dimensions. Some stand out. A person. A cat. A gnome.

Above them all, a triangle as yellow as the sun, a glistening incantation underneath. 

-

_ AFTER _

Stan drove the 1000 miles to Ford’s house as fast as he physically could.

Barely stopping to pack a bag, Stan set off as soon as he got the letter. He made few stops, one of those including somewhere just north of Sacramento at a telephone, calling first his manager (because it was easier) saying that he won’t be able to do any fights because a family emergency popped up. Then, he called his Ma. 

“Pines psychic readings, I can tell you’re going to be a great client already.”

Stanley smiled at his Ma’s usual greeting, despite the situation. It was still comforting, even after all these years. “Ma, it’s me.” 

Maybe she actually is psychic, because she knows it’s Stan right away with a gasp in her voice, “Stanley! It’s so nice to hear from ya. How’ve you been? I was able to see your last fight on t.v., you were so great!” 

“I’ve been good,” Stan cuts in before his Ma can continue any further. “Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Something… really good.” Stan didn’t expect that from the end. He hasn’t really given himself an opportunity to really think about the situation that was happening. 

Before this, he thought Ford had been dead. He’d been scouring everything to obituaries to scientific articles. But, Ford was alive! His twin brother was alive! He still feels the cold of a summer night with a telescope but knows ten years can change a person. He has hope for a brother. Even if he was messed up in the head, he was still a genius. 

“What is it, Stanley?” Their parents always use his full name now. They didn’t before. Before the ten years ago. Using just  _ Stan,  _ the brain always wanted to finish the sentence, work ahead with minimal information, finish the  _ Ford  _ at the end of  _ Stan _ . It became too hard. 

“Stanford,” He starts, voice suddenly feeling heavy. He feels a prickling behind his eyes, them suddenly reaching for something. His throat feels tight. “I just got a letter from him. He’s alive.” 

Stan explains the whole story through the teary voice of his mother, detailing the road trip he’ll be taking. She offers him as much luck as she can give before he sets back on the aforementioned journey. 

The finishing hours feel lighter, but still containing the same apprehension. Like it’s still the same grim painting as before, but now with a brighter color palette. 

He hits drive-thru places when he has to and pees on the side of the road. The blood within him, flowing from his heart to his limbs, feels like it’s vibrating, shaking his entire being with the nerves. The last time he saw his brother they had been teenagers. Now they were almost in their thirties. 

California burns into Oregon and Oregon fades into forest fast, small cities few and far between. 

_ Welcome to Gravity Falls  _ comes too fast and not nearly fast enough. The town appears to be just as small and ordinary as the rest of them but still seems to be Ford. The trees smell especially strong here, extra creatures darting between the trunks. The local’s gazes linger just a tad too long to be normal and even the buildings seem to whisper gossip to each other at the sight of someone new in a town where they all know each other. 

The road that the map leads him to is long and winding, pulling him back and forth like waves and leaving him with the same sense of disorientation. Just as he begins to doubt the route he’s taken, there it is. Ford’s house.

The weak sun shines bright off the roof of his car, yellow illuminating red as Stan takes a step outside.

-

_ A NEW TIMELINE. STARTED NOW. A NEW DEFINING MOMENT TO CLASSIFY LIFE AS. SOMETHING BIG THAT CHANGES LIFE. FORCES YOU TO CONSIDER THE TIME “BEFORE” AND “AFTER.” THE LITTLE TEN YEAR GAP SEEMS LIKE A SILLY GAME COMPARED TO THIS. JUST THE PREFACE OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.  _

Stanley knocks on Stanford’s front door. 

(So mundane of him.)

Though it was still day, the moon could be seen, something faint against the blue of the sky. A full moon. Stanley really had the timing well, showing up on the night Stanford said he’d open the portal. But I shouldn’t really expect anything else, should I? He’s always been good at timings. Countless Stanfords oh so close to everything they desired, it being taken all away the improper timing of their ticket home. It’s funny. 

Stanford opens the door, taking longer than humans usually do. He had been in his prayer room - or the gift shop, or the lab. Depending on the dimension you choose. 

He’s surprised to see Stanley there. Eyes widening and heart just seeming to stutter for a moment. Worry spreading through him like blood. 

“Stanley,” He says in an out of breath way that makes him sound like he has a hand around his throat. That’s a rare surprise showing. Stanford Pines rarely gets surprised, no matter where you look. Always calculations and predictions. This was a kind of surprise that came with saying a foreign word, seeing someone for the first time in ten years. 

Stanford’s twin brother’s face is funny, taking in the sight of Stanford. Brown eyes running up and down the outfit. The scars on his hands. His too thin stomach. His hair that reminiscent of a mad scientist. The smile that Stanford grows on his face, something a little too wide, showing a little too much teeth. But, don’t be fooled. I didn’t do anything here. 

Stanford says the other name again, a happiness seeming to ooze out of each syllable. “Why don’t you come inside?”

This is where it gets interesting. Let’s go back.

-

_ DURING _

Stan doesn’t get much time to see Ford’s house while he’s being dragged through it by his hand, Ford’s six fingers wrapped around his wrist and weaving him through statues and paintings and then to some stairs.

He feels nauseous. Ford’s hand feels sticky in a warm familiar way that’s not at all comforting. There’s triangles everywhere. Why are there so many triangles? Why won’t Ford just slow down for one second? He seems exactly the same as ten years ago. He seems exactly the same as ten years ago. How is that possible?

Wait, no. He’s different. His hair is longer, not as well taken care of. Somewhere between the endless triangles and posters in languages he can’t understand, there’s scientific articles taped to the wall and polaroids of things don’t seem real and a person among them that Stan can’t recognize. Ford’s in one of those fucking pastor outfits. Why is he in one of those fucking pastor outfits? The white collar seems to be too tight around his neck. 

“Stanley,” Ford says his name again and it’s painful. He thought his twin was dead. He thought he’d never hear that certain inflection again, those vibrations. His fingers are tight around his wrist and he takes Stan down the stairs. His words don’t seem like they can get out fast enough, fighting for dominance with the excitement that’s radiating off of him. “Your timing is impeccable! The full moon is tonight, so the Gateway can be opened.”

“Ford,” Stan tries to wiggle his wrist out but it doesn’t work. The grasp is just a little too tight. “What’s going on? Why did you contact me after all these years? I thought you were dead.” 

He doesn’t say anything until they are off the elevator. 

“I have not been dead,” He starts, like that wasn’t obvious by now. It looks like they are in a control room, a shimmery curtain blocking a window into a different room. Buttons litter the consol like stars as Ford taps a pattern he can’t find. “I have been finding answers.”

Loud whirring sounds begin as Ford does. “All my life, I have been asking questions people have been uncomfortable to hear. They have plagued my mind my entire life. You were just a child, Stanley, and scared. I see this now and I am sorry.”

Stan stiffens, fingers pressing into his arm. Unease filled him, a sense of being watched on the back of his neck. “You were just a child too.”

(Another glimpse. He getting another glimpse into Ford’s mind. Does he want it?) 

He whips around to stare Stan hard in the eyes. They’re wide, his whole body seeming to move but his eyes remaining completely still, boring into his soul almost. “And you were always so kind to me.” He turns around back to the buttons, blue light starts to seep from under the curtain. “When the world turned their back on me, you were still there. You offered help when everyone else was scared.”

Stan doesn’t remember being the kind, attentive brother that Ford is describing through his rose-tinted glasses. “We weren’t perfect.”

“You’re right.” Ford presses one last button before turning around, hands clasped in front of him and back rimrod straight. “Come with me.” 

Stan follows Ford through a door to the side that he didn’t pay attention to before. Inside, a giant inverted triangle with a gaping blue mouth. Sparks whirled off of it, colorful things unlike Stan has ever seen. Beams of light shoot up from circles on the ground, making him feel lighter on his feet. Creepiest of all, a red circle in the middle of the dark ground. 

Ford stopped in the center of the room, next to the red circle and a lever jutting up. “We weren’t perfect. You didn’t understand. You couldn’t. Now you can.

“This holds the secrets to the universe. A gateway to an alternate dimension. One with answers. The one that is home to my muse, Bill Cipher. I was set upon his path, to come to Gravity Falls and meet him. He expanded my mind and shared his infinite knowledge with me. The beginning. The end. I’ve seen them.

“With this portal, Bill can cross over. Become the household name he is destined to be. Become the god he should be. He’ll bring us his knowledge and humans will be able to move on to the next step of evolution. He’ll mold this dimension to his liking. Save us from an inevitable doom. A world where people like me, people who question the natural order, are celebrated and finally, our species will be able to  _ grow _ . 

“Stanley,” He says at the end. He reaches a hand out. The blue light shines on it and casts harsh shadows. “There’s a place for you there too. Bill Cipher will help us. He’ll save us.” 

Stan’s scared. 

The thought  _ Do I want a world filled with people like my brother?  _ comes into mind and he hates himself for it. But he remembers a possum, long, long ago, having done nothing to be prodded by unforgiving sixth fingers. He remembers a starry night with terrifying thoughts that still haunt him. He remembers taking a closer look at the experiments Ford had been doing for his science project, the feeling of thinking Ford was his brother when he was also a stranger.

He focuses on the feeling on his feet feeling heavier than rocks. A coldness slithering up through his spine like a snake, hissing and red. His fingers buzzing, like when the television is set to the wrong channel, black and white. The tightening of his throat, the scarcity of that happening and the correlation it seems to have with Ford. The pooling in the bottom of his stomach, not unlike the feeling of going out in the middle of the night, shadows hiding potential dangers, eerie silent, and a coldness that settles beneath the skin. The utter wrongness forcing itself between his bones, his cartilage, his cells, the individual folds in his brain. 

(He remembers a far off conversation with his Ma. “ _ Your feelings will guide you far _ .”)

Stan focuses on those feelings inside him. 

“No,” He says, strong in a way that surprises himself. Distantly, he sees Ford take a step back with a look of horror. “This is wrong. You have to shut it down.” 

“No!” Ford practically screams, lurching out and grabbing Stan’s hard. Six nails pressing into skin. “You don’t understand!”

Roughly, Stan wrenches his arm out of Ford’s grasp. “I understand completely. This needs to be stopped.”

Ford’s an idiot with the brains to take his bad ideas far. Stan can recognize a dangerous situation. He gets halfway to the control room before he’s tackled to the ground. 

His jaw his the ground roughly, hitting his teeth and jarring his whole head. “You can’t!” He rolls over and pushes Ford off of him, getting up with a faster pace, now that he can see where this is all going to go.

Ford juts out a leg into Stan’s foot and he falls again with a curse. He manages to land on his arms this time, small rocks on the ground pinching into his skin. Ford throws his entire body weight on Stan to try and keep Stan down but Stan can just push him off again. Honestly, Stan isn’t worried at all about this fight. He’s a boxer, Ford looks like he considers carrying textbooks a workout.

Stan puts some distance between them so now he’s in the doorway. Ford’s breathing heavily a short distance away. “Ford, calm down. We can talk about this.”

“I see now,” Ford breathes something heavy with his whole chest in between each word, “You’ll never understand. I tried. But, sacrifices must be made.”

Suddenly, Ford’s throwing himself forward, lurching back and forth like a man with nothing to lose, or everything to give up. He catches Stan off guard with two hands at his neck, squeezing hard with the small seconds he has before Stan smacks his hands away, stumbling back. 

“Ford, I don’t want to fight you.” 

“ _ I’ll _ fight  _ you _ .” 

Ford runs at Stan again but Stan can push him away, feeling like a bullfighter. “Whatever this thing is, it’s going to do a lot of damage. How can you not see that?”

Stan can see Ford’s next move in his eyes, a split second too late. Ford’s eyes flicked a small table behind Stan before Ford grabbed at Stan’s legs, using his body to push Stan on the ground. 

The wind gets knocked out of him as he lands hard, breaking the table. Ford’s on top of him again, holding his neck.

Reaching up, Stan grabs Ford and drags him to the ground, straddling him while still trying to catch his breath. Ford thrashes underneath him.

“Stanford!” He grabs Ford’s arms and holds them down. “I’ll knock you out if I have to.”

“No, you won’t.” Ford’s voice is calm again. He’s stopped thrashing. “Or you would have done it already.’

Seeming to have no build up, the machine in the other room starts whirring with a sound that sounds more like a scream more than anything. Stan twists his head around and sees the portal has begun to spin wildly, sparks and colors bleeding from the center, a technicolor path around the circumference of the opening.

Stan’s mouth is wide open is horror before morphing into a gasp as he’s punched in the face by Ford.

Ford must have gotten his hand free while Stan was distracted. The punch packed a surprising amount of power, knocking Stan off of Ford and against one of the consols near the door. 

If Ford had been fighting someone smarter or with faster reaction times, he would never have lasted this long. That being said, Ford’s eyes see something right over Stan’s shoulder right before he kicks Stan square in the chest. 

The foot pushes against his sternum pushing against his heart pushing him back. And then, unbearable pain. Sending a wash of white over all his senses. He thinks he blacks out from the pain because flashes of that triangle from upstairs fill his vision, laughing behind his ears. 

He realizes he’s screaming. There’s a smell that deliriously reminds him of the time on a Fourth of July eons ago. Their Pa had rented out a space on the beach for them, and their cousins from out of town were visiting. Ford and him were closer then, running around playing tag, waiting for the fireworks. Their Pa had done a barbeque, lawn chairs for the adults and the kids had taken to the sand to eat, near the water. The sunset had been a brilliant orange, fading to a light purple, hardening to near black. They laughed when the fireworks started, running around, trying to avoid the sparks that fell. 

Oh god, it’s not stopping. Why isn’t it stopping?

“I wanted you by my side!” Ford’s voice sounds like it’s coming through one of those soup can phone things. One can tied to the other with a taut string. Ford and him were closer then. “You did this to yourself!”

Stan rides the anger that is fueled with, precious energy to move his arm burning as hot as his back. He pushes Ford’s foot away with the desperation of a dying man. 

Ford’s barely off the ground, so Stan gathers all the leftover adrenaline and strength and anger and uses that. He throws a punch that would have his instructors wince, but it hits true. A crack of a nose breaking that echoes past the machine. Ford stumbles back, clutching his nose, red waterfalling past his fingers. 

A dead man walking, Stan stumbles his way towards Ford. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” And he really didn’t. “But that machine needs to be turned off.”

At the beginning of the day, if someone had told him these circumstances, he would have said the fight wouldn’t be worth it. So, what? It’s a machine. It’s not like it’s an actual gateway to another dimension. But the wrongness felt. Like, if he had walked into his room at home and just saw a brick floating in the middle of the room. Something That Didn’t Belong. That alone was enough to give him the power to continue, strong in is belief. 

They were just an arm's length apart. Stan’s own heavy breathing filled his ears and Ford was looking composed again, standing straight with hands clasped in front of him. Blood dripping down his face. 

“It’s for the greater good, Stanley.”

Stan’s always struggled with that. Ever since they were children. “Ford- Sixer-”

A fatal mistake. The childhood nickname. Ford’s eyes widen and Stan can see it coming but doesn’t have enough power to do anything. Two unfamiliar hands shove his shoulders back and he falls. He expects to hit the ground and not get back afterwards. But that’s not what happens. 

He sees the ground get farther away below him. He remembers the feeling of being seemingly light on his feet. He wants to laugh. Laugh and laugh until he can’t breathe anymore. 

Getting closer to the blue, Stan can see that it’s not just the solid blue he thought it was. Lighter blue, same as the sky, swirling inside it. Darker blue, same as ocean water as deep as his waist, freckling the area. A light green, same as the one he and other classmates would always debate whether it was actually green or blue, branching out from the center. A bright yellow, same as the sun on a summer beach day, starring the mouth like constellations. It’s beautiful, in a terrifying way. 

“Ford,” Stan says, attempting a weak swim away. “Stanford,” He says, louder. Below, Ford stands there, open mouth, blood dripping down his face, looking like a very open scared. Like a child for the first time in his life. 

“Stanford,” He repeats again, trying to spur some kind of action. Like turning car keys back and forth again and again in the ignition, hoping the battery will turn on. “Help me!” 

The portal’s cold. Almost soothing against his back. What he’d imagine Death’s fingers to be like. “Stanford!” 

His shoulders. Majority of his body. He stretches his arms out, reaching and grasping for anything, pulling his shoulders in a way that sets a new kind of fire to his injury but he can’t seem to care because he’s falling and he’s falling and Stanford’s just standing there not doing anything and and

“HELP ME, STANFORD! STANFORD! STAN-”

Blue fills his mouth and he’s drowning. 

-

_ THE NEW AFTER _

Stanford drops to his knees. 

Blood drips to the ground. 

“ _ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. _ ” He mutters like a mantra to the dirt. 

The portal turns off above him.

He jerks his head up, shuffling on his knees to the base of the triangle. He bangs both fists on the portal, unable to feel the pain that it brings.

“NO! BILL! I can’t lose you too… no… Please no…”

The pounding grows weaker and he sinks to the ground, crying, for perhaps the first time in his life. 

“Don’t leave me alone… please….” 

Color seeps from the world. Behind him, blinking into existence, as sudden as Ford’s world collapsing around him, Bill Cipher appears in the mindscape. 

“ **OH, STANFORD. YOU HAD SO MUCH POTENTIAL.** ”

-

_ HERE _

_ don’t know where, don’t know when. oh, i know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.  _

_ i may be gone in your dimension, but not in others. stanfords and stanleys. mabels and dippers. their blood is still on your hands. wherever a stanford pines exists, so does a bill cipher. you give me power.  _

Stanford wakes up with a gasp, waves rocking beneath him.  __

**Author's Note:**

> let me just say, this was not the original plan for this prompt. i was stuck 2000 words deep in an au of stan seeing ford sooner than the ten years. then this popped into my brain and i wrote 3000 words in one night. crazy how that happens. ended up way longer than intended. but, i really like how this turned out :) 
> 
> thanks for reading!


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